


Requiem By Lantern Light

by PigeonDreams



Category: Game Theory - Fandom, NateWantsToBattle RPF, Natepat - Fandom, Youtube RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Apologies to Stephanie, Disabled Characters, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda OOC but if you think about the circumstances not really, M/M, Only Victorian Age Kids Will Remember, Saloons, Story works on whatever logic I want it to, Trauma, sugar daddy undertones
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-10-21 04:05:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17635697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PigeonDreams/pseuds/PigeonDreams
Summary: Nate’s a saloon singer.Matt’s its wealthiest (and drunkest) regular.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So back when I started my other big project, I started planning out some of the chapters I was going to do, because I wanted to make sure I didn’t repeat ideas and because I wanted to have some of them in the same universe, MCU style. For the NatePat chapter, I was torn between two ideas, both of which would be pretty long and epic. I’ve decided to use the other one in my fic as it’s part of the connecting universe, but I didn’t want let this one go completely, so I decided to write a separate one shot. Everything I wrote in 2017 is now this prologue, and as I proceeded, I realized this would be better as a short multi-chap than a one shot. I can’t imagine it taking more than 3-5 chapters and I’m hoping to get it done by March, but according to my history...

**TRAIN DERAILED IN RUBY CANYON, 36 DEAD** read the newspaper's headline today.

Fuck, Nate thought, placing the newspaper back on the side table. I guess I'm one of the lucky ones.

He looked at where his legs and right arm should have been and sighed. If only he hadn't taken that damn nap, maybe then he would still have his own limbs.

The door opened. "I've got good news and bad news, Mr. Sharp," the doctor said, stepping into the room.

"Good news. Start with the good news." Nate desperately needed some after the week he'd had.

"Your replacement limbs are here, and ready for use."

"And the bad news?" Nate gulped.

"Well sir, considering the only limbs you could purchase on a fisherman's salary are not ideal for seawater exposure, you will have to find a new career."

"You're kidding."

"I'm not much of a kidder, Mr. Sharp."

Nate glanced at the ceiling, attempting to fight back the tears. What would he do now? It wasn't like he had much experience doing anything else, considering he'd been fishing since his teens.

As he'd imagined, the next few months were not kind to him. Lacking a source of income, he was unable to afford bread most days, nevermind three meals. He certainly wasn't getting any new clothing; and extras, we're out of the equation the instant he left the hospital. Honestly, he was just grateful he'd somehow kept his tiny apartment. Regardless, he was desperate--he needed money and needed it now.

So Nate turned to the only thing he'd had left: music.

It had been a hobby of his since he was a child; he was mostly self-taught, since he could never afford formal lessons. But he could play guitar, and he could sing, so he decided to at least try street performing. It wasn't like he had many options.

So he went for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started this fic back in 2017, when this ship was still kind of alive, and now when I’m posting it, it’s kinda dead. Oops. So this is kind of a “Hello, anyone here?”
> 
> But regardless, I’m planning another big thing with a NatePat endgame (featuring Nookie, Nando, and SepticNate) so keep me on your radar if you’re interested. It’s gonna be slice-of-life, with absolutely no venting or projection, whatsoever. Definitely not.


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two years later, Nathan is doing a little better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On this episode of "this took to long to write, but it's longer than expected, and I hope that makes up for it"
> 
> I forgot that writing this was harder than it seemed and that's why it was this lonely, abandoned draft on my phone. But unfortunately, I like this idea too much to abandon it, even if it takes forever to write.

By about two years later Nate had finally found himself in a place of some financial stability working at Jack’s Septic Eye. It was a restaurant by day, in where he served as a waiter, and a bar by night, in which he would provide the entertainment. It wasn’t glamorous, by any means, but he at least had the promise of three meals and a place to sleep at night, or rather, morning.

On this fine Monday, he woke up in his attic bedroom. Below him, he could already hear Jack shuffling downstairs, getting the place ready for the lunch crowd. Nate rubbed the sleep out of his eyes with his only hand. He pushed himself out of resting position, and the joint pain seeped in. He groaned, he trying to ignore it.

Nate clicked on his prosthetics, threw on his uniform. His chronic pains flared up with every moment, but Nate disregarded them. It was time to work.

Jack heard him creaking down the stairs. "Top of the morning, to you, laddie!"

Nate responded with an unintelligible noise.

His boss looked at him. "Do you wanna take the day off?"

"No, it's not that bad today." He said, trying not to wince too much. But the Irishman was too familiar with him to be convinced.

"Go back to bed, Nate."

"No, I already missed three days this week. I've got to help you sometimes. That's what you hired me for."

"I can't have employees fainting on the job, it's a bad look. Now go back upstairs." Jack shooed Nate.

Begrudgingly, Nate went back into the attic and laid on his bed, with excruciating pain and nothing to do. Damn, winter was always so cruel to his knees and hips. Since all forms of self-medicating had since been banned, and he was left alone to suffer until sleep finally came.

He woke up just before the evening shift in a little less pain; alleviated enough to convince Jack he was good enough to work.

He put on his show clothes, with consisted of a cerise dress shirt and charcoal vest, tie and pants. He dabbed on some face powder, and fixed his hair. Then he grabbed his guitar, and headed downstairs to face the music.

"Feeling better, then?" Jack asked. Nate nodded as the set up the stage. It was only partially a lie.

The Septic Eye was about a hundred feet in diameter. It was a dome lined by wood and glass windows. Its entrance, was a wide oval door that stayed propped open all night. The interior had warm brown furnishings with bronze pipes and gears. Half of the lights were covered by green glass instead of clear, dying the room into fractures of yellow, green, and in-between. From the winding staircase Nate climbed down in the back, the bar was on the right side, the stage—a humble protrusion with ratty velvet curtains to cover the unattractive technical stuff—was to the left, and the entrance was straight ahead. In between it all were circular cherry-wood tables that went to his waist, and booths lined the rest of the wall.

Most of the guests wouldn't arrive until after twilight, but the earliest patrons were shuffling in. Besides the usual university students and probable criminals coming in, no one notable comes in. Well nobody, except for _the_ man.

The sun has just touched the horizon when _he_ swaggered in, as if already drunk.

His black suit and bejeweled cane cost more money than Nate would ever see in his lifetime. A pair of thick glasses and a Cheshire grin decorated his face.

Matthew Patrick. The richest man in Dillohaven. His daddy owned all the railroads in the east side of the country, and the only child had inherited everything. He'd then married the late daughter of an oil baron. He had millions, though nobody knew exactly how much. There was a lot of mystery surrounding the man. He'd grown very private in the last few years, and that led to theories. Most assumed he was involved money laundering or other white collar crime (probably true). Some said he'd only married for money, and had killed his wife (not unlikely). Rumor has it he was involved with Lady Rosanna, perhaps even before his wife died (Nate didn't care). Some said that there was no Matthew Patrick and that he was actually secretly a dimension-traveling creature named Ness (this was almost certainly bullshit).

Nate knew that Mr. Patrick was a playboy who paid a lot and tipped well. And that was all that mattered. The railroad tycoon sat at his unofficial booth in the back, and Jack brought over the usual. Matthew drank two glasses of beer in six gulps, then signaled for more. His bodyguard, Mark, just stood there, like a rock.

 _He's going to ruin his liver like that,_  Nate cringed. Mr. Patrick was a drunk, sure, but he drank faster than normal today. Since Jack had already gone to , Nate took matters into his own hands.

The musician went behind the counter, grabbed the head-sized mugs, and filled them to the brim with foamy liquid. He went to the client's table.

While the bodyguard was intimidating, the man being guarded was not. His eyes were red, and he was fidgeting with a small object.

Nate plopped down the beers. "Whatcha got there?"

"My wedding ring." Mr. Patrick mumbled before taking a large swig.

"Whoa, whoa, pace yourself! You're gonna die like this!" Nate tried to pull the glass away.

"Who cares," he sighed, putting his ring back on.

Nate didn't have an answer for that, so he slipped away quietly to perform. Admittedly, Nate had had little interaction with the other man while sober, but today certainly was a weird one. He let Mr. Patrick drink in peace.

Nate went to the stage, preparing to perform for the growing crowd. He'd be saving his voice for later, so he sat at the piano and played some gentle sonatas. The piano was difficult with one hand on a delay, and he had been required to readjust his entire rhythm to play the instrument. Still, it was worth it.

The first hour of the night had passed, and it was break time. Nate slipped over to the bar for water and food.

"Hello, there mister. You got a real talent, you know that?" A gently swaying Mr. Patrick approached the singer, now smirking. Mark stood nearby, watching them.

Nate smiled. Now this was the version he was a little more familiar with. "Thank you, sir. You tell me that every night."

"Well then, it's true every night." He sat down—though it was a bit more of a fall—into the chair next to you.

"Do you remember?" Nate asked.

"Remember what?"

"Your nights here."

Mr. Patrick let out a nasally laugh. "Of course not. The point is to forget." His voice cracked mid-sentence. "Hey bartender! Two drinks."

Jack brought two mugs over, eyebrows raised at the prospect of the two drinking together.

"Okay, just one drink, Mr. Patrick. I still have a whole night ahead of me." Nate said, sipping his beer.

"Of course, of course," Matthew assured. "I understand. Got to keep the voice and hand steady,” he lifted Nate’s chin with the top of his cane, “but do come back when you’re done, okay?” he cooed.

Nate nodded and left the table when he finished He stepped onto the stage. The crowd was coming, and it was singing time. He put on his guitar and started strumming. "How's everybody tonight?" He called out to the audience, checking to see if the mic was on. A few heads turned toward him. "I'm Nathan. I'll be your entertainment for tonight." He got a few whoops in response.

 _"You're smoke and guns..."_ He scanned over the crowd to see their reaction. They seemed into it.

 _"You think I'm sick of it, I wouldn't have it any other way..."_ He glanced at Mr. Patrick, who sitting at his table. They made eye contact.

_"You're too much fun, think I can't handle it, left with no words and yet so much to say."_

The gentleman broke his stare when Jack brought more drinks to the table—this round was some sort of cocktail concoction, though it was unclear just what. _This is only his first round,_ Nate thought, but he would be too busy playing to count how many.

_"And all I see is you next to me, a ghost of you tangled up in my sheets..."_

Even from across the room, surrounded by his own music, it was obvious that Matthew Patrick wasn't just at his usual level of flirty inebriation. He stumbled on his own tongue and giggled at every noise.

" _I can't help but think you're feeling me, I can't stay away, you're killing me, I can't stay away..."_

Nate finished the set. Wiping the sweat from his face, he put down his guitar. He was ready for a break. Knowing he shouldn't, he still went for another couple of beers. What's the worst that could happen? He was a grown-ass man. He could do what he wanted.

When Nate came over to check in, Mr. Patrick had lost his jacket and had undone several shirt buttons. "Has anyone ever told you," he then made an incomprehensible noise, "that you're an egshellent—a beautiful-face musician?" He lunged forward.

Nate caught the falling man. "You told me that earlier, Mr. Patrick."

"Please," he held the _ze_ sound, "call me Matt," he slurred, resting his head on Nate's shoulder. Despite the green light, his face was clearly bright pink.

These antics humored Nate, a little intoxicated himself. "Okay, Matt, it seems you've had just a _little_ too much tonight. I think it's time to go home."

"No, noo, nooo," Matt reached for a half-finished cup on the table, "I can hangle—handle more," he assured Nate, bringing the beer to his lips and then dumping it onto his neck and shirt.

"I'll take it from here, sir," a voice from behind said. Mark grabbed the body from Nathan's arms, despite Matthew crying  _no, no, no_  whilst clawing at Nate's shirt collar and vest.

Nate picked up the glasses and suit jacket that had long since met the floor, and handed them to Mark, who took them gratefully. The bodyguard attempted to drag out his charge while causing as little of the scene as possible, to no avail; the nearby patrons were staring.

Nate peaked out of the entrance. He watched Mark guide Matt to the carriage waiting outside. He watched it head off into the the velvet night, becoming a tiny black dot in the distance—until Jack nudged him. It was time to go back on stage.

At one forty-seven in the morning, the singer crawled back into his attic, undressed himself and removed his metal limbs, finally climbing under his sheets. His head would hurt like a motherfucker in the morning, but that was a problem for sober Nathan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel bad about killing Stephanie off! She's so pure; I can't believe I've done this! I must repent!!! I'll make up for it, I promise!


End file.
